


Stage Five

by slytherco



Series: Drarry Prompt Collection [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Getting Back Together, Isolation, M/M, Magical Quarantine, Oh god they were quarantined, Pining, Post-Break Up, Sad with a Happy Ending, Self-Doubt, Self-Hatred, That's Maybe Mutual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-04
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:36:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23481793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slytherco/pseuds/slytherco
Summary: Draco broke up with Harry four months ago. Harry isn't over him and maybe a magical quarantine is just what he needs to win Draco back.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Series: Drarry Prompt Collection [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551397
Comments: 24
Kudos: 484





	Stage Five

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheLightFury](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheLightFury/gifts).



> Written for a prompt "Do you love me?" sent by the lovely [TheLightFury](https://april-thelightfury115.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> (It was supposed to be short, oops here's 6k of fic. I hope you enjoy!
> 
> A huge, huge thank you to [M0stlyVoid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/M0stlyVoid/pseuds/M0stlyVoid) for the beta and encouragement! <3
> 
> Find me on [Tumblr.](https://slytherco.tumblr.com/)

Grab the badge, get out of there.

Harry walks down the familiar street, taking a turn and going along the stretching row of suburban cobblestone houses. The neighbourhood is decidedly posh but in a distinct, non-pretentious way; it feels like people who come from very old money but brush it off with an air of lazy elegance. It’s all simple vintage fences, French windows and hedges trimmed just subtly enough to pass as natural. Grimmauld Place is nothing like this; Harry’s own house practically screams _pureblood and filthy rich_ with all its tapestries, over-the-top floral wallpapers and stuffy portraits that like to remind him he stands out like a sore thumb.

Maybe the place itself was part of the allure, he muses, but dismisses the thought immediately. While it’s perfectly clear why _Draco_ chose this particular neighbourhood—in opposition to the whole list of things that felt wrong about Malfoy Manor—Harry knows why he always enjoyed coming there. It used to be all Draco.

Used to be. Now, however—just grab the badge and get out of there.

His arms feel heavy as he closes in on the house. There’s a familiar tug in his chest, that little flutter that would set his nerves on fire every time he was about to go inside. Now, it feels more like a little piece of barbed wire stuck in his lungs at an uncomfortable angle.

He tries not to blame anyone but himself for the situation—and there would be a lot of blame to hand out if Harry were to feel generous. He could blame Ron for refusing to do it for him, or Kreacher for being too old and too busy with keeping Grimmauld relatively clean. Harry could blame Robards for making him retrieve it in the first place—after screaming at him about _Ministry Property_ and _appropriate identification_ —or even Draco himself, for not finding it and owling it to Harry at his earliest convenience.

But, well. Harry knows how distracted he was every time he went there. How there were much more important things in that house that required his attention. How silly it seemed, to collect all his stuff, since he was going to be back the next day. So, all in all, Harry is the only one to blame for this particular predicament. It’s his fault for being a fool.

He needs to grab the badge and get out of there. 

Scratch that, it sounds like breaking and entering.

Knock on the door, politely and calmly ask for his Auror badge, take it and _get the fuck out of there before he does something stupid_.

“Potter?” A deep voice rumbling from the other side of the street turns out to be the last person he expected to see there.

At this point, Harry’s legs carry him autonomically, as if they knew that if he stopped, he wouldn’t be able to go through with it. He turns and shouts to his friend, awkwardly walking backwards and hoping for the best. “Kingsley? Good to see you, I’ve just got to grab something really quick! Coffee in ten?”

“Where are you— Harry!” Kingsley bellowed after him. “Don’t go— Shit,” He rushes after him and Harry speeds up. 

“It’s all right, Kingsley, I just need to—” He waves a dismissive hand and steps through the ornate iron gate.

 _I don’t know what I need_ , Harry thinks, but he isn’t particularly eager to talk about his feelings to Kingsley, of all people. He’s a dear friend, obviously, and Harry would trust him with his life, he’s just not the type to braid hair (well, _duh_ ) and talk about boys. Besides, there’s nothing revelatory to talk about anymore—all his friends already know what went down.

Well, at this point, probably half of the Ministry knows. 

It’s been nearly four months since everything happened. It’s been four months since Harry’s life got derailed yet again, after a year of relative peace and blissful happiness. 

Four months ago, Draco Malfoy broke up with him, and has refused to speak to him since.

Hermione once said there are five stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. As much as Harry refuses to call it _grief_ , or to talk about it at all for that matter, he begrudgingly admits there may be a kernel of truth to her theory. He’s grateful for his friends and knows they’ve been worried sick but deep down, Harry feels what happened between him and Draco was too raw, too complicated to strip it of emotion and deconstruct piece by piece, or to have a bottle of Firewhisky about it.

Harry walks up to Draco’s door with a strange mix of dread and longing stirring in his gut. There’s a magnolia tree near the entrance and its smell, once intoxicating and promising, seems just cloying and foreign now. 

It’s fine. He’s just coming over his ex’s house to get something he left there. People do that all the time. 

He raises his hand to knock, but sees the door is cracked just a little bit. Without thinking, Harry pushes it open; the hallway is empty. Admittedly, that makes it easier—the open door rules out the possibility of Draco telling him to go away or not answering the door at all. The thought is, however, pinched with a tiny bit of anxiety. Did something happen? This wasn’t common, especially for Draco.

“Draco…?” Harry calls. No answer. “Draco!” He tries a little louder. “Everything all right? I’m coming in,” he shouts into the empty hallway, feeling silly. What if he’s busy or just forgot to close the door? Harry’s stomach drops at the thought that Draco might not be alone in there.

Suddenly, a mop of platinum blond hair and a pair of piercing silver eyes appear in the corridor, and with them the rest of Draco Malfoy. He stares at Harry as if he were a wild animal.

“Potter,” he says slowly. “Do _not_ make a move.”

Harry rolls his eyes. “Very mature of you. I think my Auror badge is still here, I’m just popping in to get it or Robards will have my head.” He moves forward. There’s a distinct sound of someone running up the path.

“Potter, wait!” Draco flails his hands in the air. “You won’t be able to—”

Harry steps inside and it feels like someone has poured a bucket of lukewarm water onto his head. He whirls around just in time to see Kingsley abruptly stopping just before the threshold.

“Wha— What the hell just happened?” He looks at Draco again. “Was that a spell?”

Kingsley’s still panting when he angrily punches the air in front of him. “Damn it!”

“What?” Harry’s confused but understands enough to know he might have just made a grave mistake.

“Malfoy! You weren’t supposed to let him in!” Kingsley points an accusatory finger at Draco.

Draco scoffs. “And _you_ were supposed to secure the perimeter!”

“Excuse me?” Harry looks from one to the other as if he were watching a tennis match.

“Oh, get off your high horse, not everything is about you,” Draco snarls and Harry recoils a little.

Kingsley lets out a deep sigh, rubbing his bald head. “I went outside to wait for the Aurors… Nevermind.” He turns to Hary. “I’ll make it quick: Malfoy opened some old keepsake and there was a huge magic anomaly that alerted the Curse Breakers.”

Harry looks at Draco, incredulous. “Why would you—”

“Oh, fucking spare me your—”

“Hey! Both of you!” Kingsley bellows over them and Harry and Draco immediately fall silent. He sighs. “Harry, trust me when I say Malfoy’s already gotten a dressing-down from myself, the Auror Department _and_ the Curse Breakers, and there’s nothing you can say that he hasn’t already heard today.”

Harry clenches his jaw, wishing his heart to stop hammering. “You could’ve gotten killed!” he hisses at Draco, but his attention is back on Kingsley when the man speaks again.

“We don’t know what it was, so we had to put wards on the place until the Curse Breakers figure it out.”

“Wait, he can’t leave? Why? What the fuck?” Harry stares at his friend in disbelief. 

“Harry—”

“You can’t cage him like an animal! He didn’t do anything!” Harry shouts, anger already bubbling in his veins. He _knows_ Draco, and Draco isn’t evil, it was an accident and the DMLE is stereotyping him again because—

“He has everything he needs and has agreed to take this precaution,” Kingsley interrupts.

Harry turns to Draco, deflated. “You agreed to this? There must be some other—”

“What was I supposed to do, go rogue like the bad little Death Eater everybody thinks I am?” Draco grits out. 

Harry’s chest constricts as he looks at him. Something flashes in Draco’s eyes, something Harry hasn’t seen in months. “Draco, _don’t_. You know—”

“Whatever it is, it could be something dangerous or contagious,” Kingsley states, looking at Harry with raised eyebrows. “So, er…”

The moment Harry catches up, he freezes. “Wait, what? What are you saying?”

“Harry, this is just until we figure out what it is. Which is probably nothing. We just need to locate the spell and find out what it does.”

Mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, Harry stares. When he finally finds his voice, he manages to choke out: “I— I have to stay here?”

Kingsley nods. “The Curse Breakers already left. Anyone can go in but you can’t leave, it’s magically sealed.”

There’s a long, heavy pause. Kigsley is looking at him in anticipation, probably waiting for a fit of rage. Behind him, Draco seems to have stopped breathing altogether. Harry’s shoulders slump in defeat. “How long?”

“I’ll ask Weasley to send you a change of clothes.”

With that, Kingsley gives both men a curt nod and disapparates with a swirl. And then, there is just piercing silence as Harry’s stomach slowly caves in on itself.

This isn’t happening. 

_Stage one: denial._

***

Everything happens too fast and none of it feels real. Harry’s overnight bag is brought, surprisingly, by Kreacher, Draco’s shoulders are tense as he raises his hand to point in the direction of the guest bedroom, and Harry’s stomach is in knots as he settles in the silent, cold room. It’s foreign in a wrong, disconcerting way, like those cryptid motel rooms with flickering fluorescent lamps and old, stained wallpapers. The bedroom is nothing like that, obviously; it’s quiet and has been thoroughly cleaned for an impersonal effect—just like their relationship.

They make it until the evening.

With Draco locked away in his own bedroom, Harry lets himself walk the corridors. Seeing the house, once warm and familiar, is now like scratching a scab on a fresh wound; each wall, room, and corner shreds it open as Harry rediscovers every nook. The hook where he used to hang his coat, the last bag of Harry’s favourite tea (the one that Draco deemed abhorrent and still bought every time he ran out), the absence of an extra toothbrush, Draco’s favourite grey sweater draped over the big armchair—it’s all there. He runs a hand over the kitchen counter where Draco would sit in the mornings, where Harry would kiss him as if breathing didn’t matter; he stares at the mahogany dresser in the hall where Draco took him that one night they didn’t make it to the bedroom, and at the sofa where they used to hold, touch, and kiss each other on countless afternoons filled with soft whispers, tender hands, and the smell of jasmine. Harry wonders if he’ll keep it together—as together as one can, at least, with their pieces scattered all over a house they’re not welcome in anymore.

“If you need anything, you can just ask. You’re not a prisoner here.”

Draco is standing in the kitchen door, wearing a pair of soft joggers and a faded t-shirt. He looks tired, the kind he gets when he’s troubled, when he has to be strong but is afraid. The last time Harry saw him like this was the night before Draco visited his father in Azkaban. Normally, Harry would pull him into his lap, let Draco bury his face in his jumper and softly kiss the top of his head.

In that second, _normal_ seems to be light years beyond his grasp; his _normal_ is standing in the doorway, looking anything but, and refusing to acknowledge both their pain.

Draco huffs. “Well, technically, you are, I suppose.” He hesitates. “Anyway. Feel free to let me know, if— Yes.” He takes a steadying breath. “I want to be as hospitable as possible, so if there are any amenities I could provide—”

Harry interrupts him, incredulous. “Is this the way you’ll be talking to me now?” He runs a hand through his hair. “ _Amenities you can provide_ , God, do you hear yourself?”

“Potter, I don’t see—”

“Oh, _Potter_ now, is it?” Harry lets out a bitter laugh and swallows the sticky lump in his throat. “We will never talk about it, won’t we?”

“There is nothing to talk about, _Harry_.” Draco’s voice is sharp and biting, sending cold needles down Harry’s spine. “I’m going back to bed.”

He starts to walk away and it feels exactly the same as it did the last time.

“Draco,” Harry calls, half-expecting him to leave anyway. Draco turns.

Harry stands barefoot in the middle of the kitchen and his glasses must be dirty again, and the heating is turned up too high, probably, but his voice is calm when he speaks.

“Just… Why?” 

He doesn’t expect Draco to answer, so when he does, Harry gathers he must look very pathetic. Draco glances at him sadly.

“It got too real.”

Afterwards, Harry tosses and turns in bed, anger and pain keeping sleep at bay. After everything, after over a year together, after they gave each other their lives, their bodies, their fucking _hearts_ , and Draco calls him _Potter_.

_Stage two: anger._

He should have stayed in his damn room. Both of them should have.

***

_Ten months ago_

They stumbled through the door and as soon as it shut, Harry was on him, pinning Draco to the wall. Draco groaned as Harry latched his mouth onto his neck, breathing harshly against the slightly pink skin. “You got a sunburn.”

“Well—ah!” Draco buried his fingers in Harry’s hair, stroking the black locks as Harry sucked on his earlobe. “The weather _was_ exceptional today.”

Harry came up to face him, teasing Draco’s lips with his and leaning back. He chuckled when Draco instinctively followed, letting out a small whine. “Just the weather?”

His hand sneaked down to Draco’s belt, eliciting a low groan; Draco, the impatient git, grabbed him by the neck to crush their mouths together.

They came up gasping for air. “Well,” Draco hummed, kissing Harry’s chin. “It _is_ my birthday so forgive me for assuming today’s celebrations should be a standard—oh _fuck_ , Harry!” His head thudded against the wall as Harry pulled his belt out of the loops in one, swift move. “An _Acceptable_ , if you will,” he panted, his canines flashing in a devilish grin.

“Well, let’s hope it will turn into an _Outstanding_ by the time I’m done with you,” Harry said, and dropped to his knees.

“Harry, God, _Harry_ —”

***

Harry spends most of the second day perishing in bed, reading some books he found in his room. Somewhere around the evening, there’s a quiet knock on the guest bedroom door. He jumps, startled; Harry’s accepted he will have no company while they were both stranded in Draco’s house. No amount of begging and pleading, talking or screaming will bring Draco back. _Stage five is acceptance_ , he reminds himself.

Harry doesn’t know whether he’s terrified of accepting the truth or if there really _is_ something in Draco’s eyes every time he makes the mistake of looking at Harry. Either way, he’s not ready for stage five, not yet.

Maybe Draco’s terrified, too.

“I made dinner. You can help yourself if you’re hungry, it’s in the kitchen, under a stasis spell,” Draco states calmly. He’s standing at the door almost like a butler, all straight posture and fake politeness. Harry stifles the urge to chuck a book at him. Instead, he slaps it closed with a satisfying smack.

“What, you can’t even have a meal with me?” He looks at Draco with what he hopes is defiance. “Too much to handle after you—” Harry’s voice breaks but he recovers quickly. “After we—”

“Harry.” Draco closes his eyes and just stands there with slumped shoulders. “Please, let’s not do this.”

“Why won’t you just talk to me?” Harry whispers.

“What good would it do?”

“If you would just tell me what happened,” he says pleadingly, “maybe we could fix this. Draco, we’ve been through worse.”

“We can’t be fixed, Harry, _I_ can’t be fixed, I—”

“Draco, please, if— Fuck, I need this. Don’t you think I deserve to understand?” 

_Stage three: bargaining._

Draco stares at him, biting his lip. His knuckles are white on the hand that clutches the door handle and Harry wishes away the urge to leap off the bed and _make_ Draco talk to him. There’s a crack in the thick wall Draco has built around himself, and Harry wonders how he could hit to make it crumble.

He doesn’t get to, though; he also doesn’t get the courtesy he’s asking for. Draco’s posture changes; he lifts his chin but isn’t looking at Harry anymore. “I— Ah. If you’ll excuse me.”

Harry doesn’t eat that evening.

***

“Potter.”

The fire is catching up to them, flames licking at their backs, threatening to swallow them whole. He needs to go faster, to save them both; time is running out, the hourglass almost full as the last grains of sand fall down in slow motion. It’s hot, scalding, and Harry’s face is wet with sweat, tears, perhaps blood, too. The ominous, rumbling conflagration advances and he knows they won’t make it, it’s sucking them in and the solid grip on his back and shoulders tightens, desperate and insistent.

“Potter, wake up,” the low voice in his ear urges. But he is awake, and the grip on his shoulder grows stronger, burns white. Fear consumes him as the truth dawns—Harry is going to lose him, and his own mind in the process.

“Harry!” 

He gasps as he’s shaken awake by Draco’s slim fingers gripping his collarbone. While it definitely shouldn’t, the touch still burns and Harry feels small and weak as he dizzily reminds himself not to lean into it. But, oh, does he want to. 

Both he and Draco have frequent nightmares—an aftertaste of the war they were thrown into as boys. Harry’s terrors have gotten much worse since Draco walked out of his life, and Harry despises himself for feebly hoping Draco’s have, too. 

It’s one of the many little things they used to do—whenever one had a nightmare, they would wake up in a warm embrace, among hushed reassurances that they were safe and loved, that everything was going to be okay. Harry wants to laugh at the irony because this, now, is the future, and nothing is okay and his body feels like an open wound. He hates it, how over a year of comfort and security has brought his guard down and how he’s just all weakness, an exposed nerve, all defences gone.

He’s coming down from it and the hand on his shoulder is gone, too. And it should be fine, and _it is,_ Harry insists, because it’s over and there’s nothing he can do. There is nothing he can say to make Draco miraculously fall onto the covers next to him, to hold him, to kiss his temple and maybe even say those four months were just another nightmare. 

Still, it doesn’t stop him from needing it.

Harry sits up, leaning on the headboard. Draco sits on the edge of his guest bed and he isn’t looking at Harry, maintaining a safe distance. His hair has grown out, Harry notices, and he’s lost weight. Draco’s form seems almost spectral, a looming, pale figure, looking into the distance with strange, wide eyes brimmed with purple.

Inexplicably, Harry wants to cry, so he says: “Sorry I woke you.”

“Yes, well,” Draco says quietly. “I couldn’t sleep anyway, so.”

“Why not?” Harry asks before he can stop himself.

Draco stares at the carpet. “You don’t get to ask me that anymore, Harry.”

And it hurts, more than Harry can take, more than he expects. He clears his throat. “Right.” Keeping the sadness out of his voice is a small victory.

“I’ll just—” Draco starts.

“Thank you,” Harry says at the same time. “For, uh, checking up on me.”

“It was nothing.” Draco stands up and straightens out his joggers. “I’m going.”

“Yeah,” Harry nods, fingers twisting in the edge of the covers. “Goodnight, Draco.”

He hears a soft intake of breath as if Draco wants to say something else. There’s a hesitant pause, heavy with unspoken, forbidden longing. Harry’s skin burns with desire to reach out, to lock his fingers around a pale, lithe wrist, to breathe in the familiar scent of lemon and sage. He wants to scream, to elicit a reaction, anything, he wants Draco to push him away, maybe even punch him. Harry would prefer it if Draco hated him, or hurt him, rather than kept them both in this unbearable, emotional limbo of detached courtesy and collected tones.

“Draco, I…” 

The door closes softly.

Harry curls in on himself between the cold sheets, briefly wishing to be swallowed whole. They don’t smell like anything, just a clinical and sensible scent of clean fabric. In a grotesque surge of hopeless romanticism, he envisions Draco leaning on the other side of the door and for a short second, Harry can almost hear him exhale. Because Harry knows Draco Malfoy like the back of his hand, has the constellations of his expressions memorised and tattooed on his ribs, and Harry knows, just like he knows the days of the week, that Draco is hurting just as much.

_Stage four: depression._

He should have let Harry ride out that nightmare because, ironically, true torment shows its face when he’s awake. 

***

_Five months ago_

“M’sorry I woke you,” Draco murmured, pressing his naked body closer to Harry’s, burying himself deeper in his embrace.

“Don’t apologize,” Harry whispered as he wrapped his arms around him. “We both know how it feels,” he kissed the white-gold hair. “I’m here and it’s okay.”

“Yeah,” Draco nodded absently. “It’s so surreal, you know,” he added.

“The dreams?”

“You,” he looked up at Harry with an unreadable expression. “Having this.”

Harry’s heart was hammering; he gazed into the silver eyes and the realization took his breath away. “Draco, I—”

Draco made a small, keening sound and kissed him hard. And Harry kissed him back, trying to say it, to somehow transfer the emotion he had been carrying inside his chest for weeks, maybe months, to let Draco know it’s there.

“Sleep, Harry,” Draco said, touching his lips.

And Harry did, resolving to tell him later. After all, they had time.

***

The next morning, on the third day of the quarantine, Harry wakes up first. He pulls on a spare t-shirt and treads down to the kitchen just when the first traces of sunlight illuminate the spare bedroom.

He’s exhausted—he had trouble falling asleep last night, thinking about silver eyes and hollowed cheeks. At one point, he was on the brink of stomping down the hall and banging on Draco’s door. What he would do had Draco actually let him in, Harry doesn’t know.

He walks downstairs to the kitchen and, again, his legs carry him on their own. His hands open the sleek, black cupboards, take out all he seems to need, and, fifteen minutes later, Harry is making chocolate pancakes. Everything is in its place, just as he remembers it. It used to be another one of their rituals—whenever one had a nightmare, the other made a sweet, decadent breakfast, usually consisting of sugar, chocolate, maple syrup and butter. They would eat it in the kitchen, Draco perched atop the counter with his legs wrapped around Harry’s middle, chest to back, quiet and peaceful.

Harry wonders if the sweet aroma has permeated through the air, around the house, and upstairs. He wonders if Draco remembers. Inexplicably, he wants to throw a few plates at the wall. He isn’t even hungry.

“What on earth are you doing?” A sleepy voice comes from the kitchen door. Draco shoots a glance at the small mess and the neat pile of pancakes on a plate sitting on the counter. His mouth opens, just an inch, and there’s a soft exhale. 

And Harry shouldn’t have done it, he knows. He suddenly feels like a child caught breaking the rules, like a sentimental fool, and a lovestruck creep all at the same time. Draco needs to stop looking at him or Harry might do something reckless or ill-advised, like offer him some breakfast, or grab him by his too-loose t-shirt and kiss him, consequences be damned.

“Did you—” Draco’s voice is soft in the mornings, and today is no exception. Harry misses it; he misses him so much his heart is breaking and he doesn’t understand anything anymore.

So Harry does the only logical thing he can think of—he grabs his wand and vanishes all the mess and the pancakes along with it. 

“I— Er,” Harry mumbles. “I woke up early.” 

Draco looks like he’s considering something but before he can say anything, a familiar Patronus appears in the middle of the kitchen. It’s a lynx and Harry’s stomach jumps—that means news from Kingsley.

It speaks in Kingsley’s low rumble, hurriedly, as if updating them on the situation was an afterthought. “Potter, Malfoy. The Curse Breakers are almost done with their work. Seems it was an old repelling spell, quite possibly against Valcores. And since there hasn’t been a record of one in the British Isles since the seventeenth century, the magic just—how did you say it?—it didn’t have anything to hold on to. They should manage to disarm it by tomorrow morning. I’ll come by to lift the wards.”

The spectral lynx hangs around for a few seconds and dissipates into a thin, silvery mist. A long pause stretches between them, neither knowing what to say. Harry tries to classify all the emotions running through his body; he’s relieved, obviously, that the threat was not a serious one after all. He’s also disappointed, for lack of a better word—it seems this is the last time he’s this close to Draco. It’s the last time Harry will see him sleep-rumpled and barefoot, the last time he will make chocolate pancakes in this kitchen, and the last time he will smell lemon and sage wafting off Draco’s hair.

Finally, Draco clears his throat. Harry’s heart leaps with stupid hope but Draco only stares, swallowing thickly. 

“I suppose you’d like your badge back,” he says quietly.

So this is it. “Yeah,” Harry croaks.

He goes after Draco to the living room and watches him take a small, ornate jewellery box off the fireplace mantle. He places it on the coffee table and taps his wand to its lid, popping it open. There’s an array of different items inside: spare keys, little gemstones, crumpled up notes, a few old coins, and, in the middle of it all, is Harry’s badge.

Harry watches as Draco slowly picks it up and sees his own face on the little picture, smiling shyly at the camera. And then, Draco forgets himself as he brushes a finger over the photo, and Harry’s heart stops.

“You kept it,” he whispers.

Draco jumps, shaken out of his reverie. Immediately collecting himself, he holds out the badge for Harry to take. “It was laying around. I put it away. I fully intended to send it back.”

Harry tilts his head and takes a step forward, making Draco tense up. “No. It wasn’t just laying around. It’s been four months. You kept it.”

Draco doesn’t say anything and the hand holding out the badge starts to shake, only a little. He puts the badge on the table next to the box and crosses his arms. It looks more like he’s hugging himself, though.

Harry’s low voice brings him back to attention. “Why did you keep it?”

“I didn’t. I told you, I found it the other day—here it is,” he gestures vaguely at the table. “You can take it and we can call it a day.”

“No.”

“Harry,” Draco sighs shakily. “You’re leaving tomorrow and—”

“Oh, I bet you know all about leaving, right?” Harry says bitterly and immediately regrets it, seeing Draco almost recoil.

“We shouldn’t do this, Harry, please.”

Harry, however, tries a different approach. “You said it got too real. Did I do something?”

Draco opens his mouth, looking at Harry in something akin to disbelief.

“Shit, Draco, please. I’ve been wracking my brain for an answer and—”

“You didn’t do anything,” Draco says. “You were perfect,” he adds so quietly, Harry almost misses it.

Harry’s chest feels tight. “So why did you leave me?”

He hates sounding like a helpless child, whining and bugging Draco, but he’s so _close_ , real and alive next to him, Harry digs his fingernails into his palms to stay still.

“I had to leave,” Draco looks at him with despair. “I had to, before—”

“Before what?”

“Before you left!” he exclaims, voice breaking. “Before you saw what a fucking mess I am! Every time we met, every time we kissed, every time we _fucked_ , Harry, the only thing I could think was: you’re going to lose him one day. He’s going to see you for who you really are and discard you, and— and leave you in fucking pieces!” Draco’s breathing heavily, face flushed.

The wall starts to crumble and Harry’s floored with what he’s hearing.

“So you hurt me before you could get hurt?” Harry runs his hands through his hair. “That’s— that’s not how relationships work! Do you really think I started this with you to play some— some fucked up game of emotional chicken?” Harry circles the room, trying to walk off all of his frustration. He looks at Draco and shakes his head. “Before I left? Well, newsflash—I wasn’t planning to leave.”

Draco’s eyes are closed, or maybe he’s staring at his feet. “It would go to shit eventually. Everything does, in my experience.”

Harry wants to laugh hysterically. “God, if you ever thought we’re any different, you must be fucking naive.”

Draco’s head whips up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I was scared, too! I was _terrified_ , I suddenly had this amazing thing, and I was fucking happy for the first time in years, Draco!”

“Yes, well, and I fucked it right up, didn’t I?” Draco shots, his voice dripping with venom. “I see no point in discussing it any further.”

Suddenly, Harry remembers. “It was that one night, wasn’t it? When you had a nightmare, remember? I was going to tell you—”

“You didn’t mean that Harry,” Draco interrupts, just like he did back then.

“Jesus, would you listen to yourself?” Harry’s on the brink of pulling his hair out. He watches the insufferable, insecure, beautiful human being in front of him and Harry loves him so much he wants to punch him. How could Draco ever come to a conclusion Harry would leave? They were separated for four months and it nearly drove him insane. In that second, Harry knows he’s not giving up; his whole body seems to levitate towards Draco, every nerve and bone, every inch of his skin screams _I love you, I love you, I love you_. 

Draco needs to understand.

“Draco, I was serious. About you, about _us_. I—”

“No Harry, it’s over. I can’t— It’s—”

Harry strides across the room and Draco freezes; they’re much closer now and Harry speaks in a low, stern tone. “Bloody hell, Draco, if you would just stop being a self-sabotaging, punishment-hungry, guilt-ridden _masochist_ for one second and listened to me.”

He has Draco nearly pinned against the wall; they’re not close enough to touch, not yet, but the need to reach out is so overwhelming, Harry’s ears are ringing. He leans against the wall, propping his hand somewhere over Draco’s shoulder.

“The fifth stage of grief is acceptance. And I don’t accept that, I—” 

Draco lets out a shaky exhale, squeezing his eyes shut. They stand there rooted to the floor, their shallow breaths the only sounds in the room.

“Do you love me?” Harry asks abruptly.

“Harry.” Draco pushes weakly at his shoulder, fingers digging into the soft cotton. Harry realizes the t-shirt he’s wearing used to be Draco’s and he wants to laugh because he honestly forgot that—of course, it’s Draco’s. Things like that have a way of fading into the background, unconscious like breathing, everlasting like grass. He sees the same realization flash in Draco’s eyes and wants to shout: _you claimed me._ _How can I move on from that?_

Harry’s heart is already taken and no amount of separation can extract something that has soaked through down to his marrow. It’s not just a stupid t-shirt, Draco owns all of him.

His lower lip trembles as he tries to push Harry away again. Harry catches his wrist in a loose grip, knowing he shouldn’t. Draco makes no move to free himself, gaze fixed on Harry’s golden bronze skin, stark against his ghostly white, thin wrist. Harry’s stomach lurches, because, God, Draco is so, so thin, Harry’s afraid he might break if he’s not taken care of, protected from everything bad and painful—and Harry doesn’t trust another soul in the world to do that.

“If you can say it, say it,” he whispers and steers Draco’s limp hand to his face—a vulnerable, childish gesture. Smooth knuckles barely graze his stubble and Draco’s fingers recoil ever so slightly. And then, they move, just a hair's breadth, and there’s warmth brushing his cheek and Harry squeezes his eyes shut to stop the tears.

Draco’s finger moves at a glacial pace and Harry’s nerve endings nearly groan in relief. He was devoid of this for nearly four months: the simple feeling of Draco’s skin on his, the silky tone of his voice, his smell on warm, lazy Sunday mornings. It has carved a Draco-shaped empty space in his arms, the crook of his neck, in the vellum-thin spaces between his fingers. 

Harry was a shadow, muted and suspended. It felt like dispossession, a dis _-_ existence.

He turns his face and Draco’s hands smell like chamomile tea, like his jasmine soap and yes, there it is, that ever-present hint of lemon. Harry pulls the hand closer and inhales, places a reverent kiss to each fingertip, every crevice, turns his wrist and kisses Draco’s palm. He looks up through the thick curtain of his eyelashes as his thumb rubs slow circles into the delicate tendons that cage Draco’s pulse, fluttering like a hummingbird.

“Look me in the eyes and say that you don’t love me.”

A small sound lodges itself in Draco’s throat, something between a sob and a whimper.

“Draco.” It sounds like a prayer; Harry whispers the name like a litany at the altar of his hands. “Draco, please. Draco,” his voice starts to break. “Draco, _Draco, Draco_ —”

The pull comes slowly and unexpectedly, a tender tug to Harry’s jaw, up, into the safe haven of his arms. Muscle memory guides Harry’s hand to the nape of Draco’s neck, the other goes to the side of his face and everything else is tuned out, a background noise compared to how his whole body screams in relief.

Draco’s face is wet and Harry kisses it all off and wants to say something but his throat doesn’t work so he just presses their foreheads together. They wait for their heartbeats to slow down, breathing each other in.

“I’m sorry,” Draco says softly. “Fuck, Harry, I—”

Harry wraps his arms tightly around him and kisses his temple, his hairline, the shell of his ear. Draco is whispering nonsense into his mouth and then, he’s kissing him—an apology, absolution and a promise all melted into a single press of lips. He tastes like home and Harry is allowed back in; Draco opens up to him and he takes, devours that beloved mouth, touches him everywhere his hands can reach until they’re both breathless and shaking.

“Don’t leave me again,” Harry pleads. “Draco, stay—”

“Yes,” he whispers and kisses the corner of Harry’s mouth. “Yes, Harry.”

He takes Draco’s hand and tugs lightly. Slowly, gradually, they move towards the master bedroom, stopping every few steps to ground themselves in the moment. They kiss, and kiss, and kiss, so their lips can make sure the other isn’t going anywhere and it grows slow, deliberate and so impossibly intimate, Harry falls in love with Draco just a little bit more.

They make love that afternoon, trembling, messy, and tender. The lump in Harry’s throat is back as he watches Draco move above him, inside him, with spit-slick lips and a crease between his brows. And then, Draco gasps his name, over and over again and there is wetness in the corners of their eyes, the dips of their collarbones, pooling in the soft skin of their abdomens. Draco is his lifeline—Harry holds on tight and promises himself to never let him go.

The afternoon passes as hours slip away unnoticed. They stay in bed for the rest of the day by unspoken agreement—to talk, kiss, touch, and share their bodies, to make up for all the lost time. Drifting between sleep and wakefulness, Harry refuses to let go of Draco, and Draco finally smiles and laughs softly, and Harry wants to drink the sound off his lips.

The day turns into dusk and the kiss Harry plants on Draco’s lips turns heated, hungry and carnal. Harry makes love to him for the umpteenth time and it’s still wonderful, surprising in ways he will never get tired of discovering. When they come down, panting and tangled, Harry tells him in the dark, and Draco doesn’t say it back but he’s shaking, and he nods, and kisses over Harry’s heart. 

Melded together, they fall asleep in sheets that smell like lemons.


End file.
